


Finding Out (age 10)

by sonofabitch_awesome



Series: A Day In Each Year [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabitch_awesome/pseuds/sonofabitch_awesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas and Dean's daughter Dessie sneaks onto a hunt and discovers the truth about what's really going on.<br/>-<br/>Note: As this is *age* 10, this is *story* 10 as well, but I can't put it as such. Stories 4-9 still need some tweaking, so I'll constantly be rearranging as I finish and upload.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Dean's POV

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of my A Day In Each Year series, but it quickly got to be too long, so I’m posting it separately.
> 
> Warning, both part one and two end on cliffhangers.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Cally

_[Dean’s point of view]_

“…should be quick,” Dean says, slowly pacing in the main room. He switches the cell to his other ear.

“Yeah, but I mean, I might as well back you up, just in case,” Sam tells him. “They’re pretty quick. Can’t be too safe on this one.”

“You just want to get out of the house, don’t you?” Dean laughs. “Been a while since you did a ride along, huh?”

Sam doesn’t have a decent quip to that. Finally he says, “Oh come on.”

“Sure, Sammy, meet me out there in about an hour,” Dean relents, still smiling. “I gotta put Dessie to bed. Hey, make sure to pack the flamethrower, huh?”

“Got it.”

Dean ends the call and drops his phone on one of the tables. “Cas?” he calls out, wondering if his husband is still in the library. “Babe?”

“In here, Dean,” he hears. Yep. Still in the library.

When Dean walks in, he sees Cas standing at the bookcase where books on angel lore are located. “There is a lot here that is slightly inaccurate,” he’s saying, a book open on one palm. He turns a page, forehead creased in concentration. Dammit, he’s so amazing that Dean can’t resist. 

He takes the book out of his hand, sets it still-open on top of a row of books so Cas won’t lose his place, and kisses him. Slides his hands along Cas’s jaw, curling his fingertips along the sides of his husband’s face. 

Cas pushes Dean into the opposite bookcase, digging his hands into the lapels of Dean’s jacket. He feels the spines of books stutter farther into their shelves from the back of his head, and the firm rows of shelf edges laddering along his back. “What time—” Cas breathes into his mouth “—are you leaving?”

“Hour,” Dean whimpers. “Sam’s—meeti—” Cas presses a knee between his, and Dean decides to say ‘screw it’ to the rest of his sentence and slides his hands up the back of Cas’s shirt. 

Cas is pressing tiny kisses down along the right side of Dean’s neck. “Do we have time for a quickie after Dessie goes to bed?”

They’ll _make_ time. “I can text him if I’m late,” Dean barely manages to say.

It takes a while, but they finally break apart, Cas resting his forehead against Dean’s as they calm their breathing. They need to do their fatherly responsibility thing and get their daughter to bed. 

Cas takes a step backward, and Dean runs his hands over his hair, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, to be continued.” Silently, Cas gives him that look, and Dean very nearly shoves _him_ against the bookcase. “Come on.”

Dessie is in the kitchen, emptying some leftover milk from a cereal bowl into the sink. “Hi, Dad, hi, Papa,” she says.

“Make sure you wash that out,” Cas tells her as she starts to step away from the sink, leaving the bowl and spoon inside. She frowns, annoyed, but starts to do what he says.

Dean tucks the inside bag of the cereal box down inside and folds the flaps together before setting it back on top of the fridge. “Homework done?”

“Yep,” Dessie nods, running water into the bowl to rinse away the last of the soap. She sticks it in the drainer next to the spoon – wrong side up so the water will take longer to dry, but Dean is so past caring at this point.

“Mind if we check?” He leans against the fridge, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows.

“ _Daaaaad_ ,” Dessie sighs, rolling her eyes. “Fine.”

Cas is already at the little side table, unzipping her backpack and pulling out her binder. “Where is it?” he asks, uncertain, not wanting to nose through absolutely everything.

“History stuff. Back inside cover,” Dessie says. She watches as Cas scans it quickly, then tucks it back in. “Okay, satisfied?” 

“Yes, it’s fine,” Cas says, putting the binder back and zipping it up. 

Dean clears his throat. “Hey, uh, kiddo?” Dessie looks over at him. “I’ve gotta go help your uncle Sam with something tonight. I’ll be leaving after you go to bed. Probably won’t be gone long, though, I promise.” 

Really, she’s old enough that it shouldn’t matter, especially for such a quick hunt like they’re anticipating, but he can’t stand the idea of her maybe waking up and needing him for something, and not knowing where he is. He remembers that happening too much with Sam, nights when their father hadn’t bothered to tell them even _that_ he was hunting, much less when he’d be back. 

“Okay,” Dessie says evenly. “Tell Uncle Sammy I said hi.” 

“Come here,” Dean tells her, unfolding his arms. “C’mon.” She steps into his arms and he holds her for a second. “Love you, kiddo. Sweet dreams.” Presses a kiss to her temple.

Cas hugs her after Dean does, kissing the top of her head. “We love you, sweetheart,” he says as she steps back. “Go brush your teeth and plug your phone in and everything. See you in the morning.”

“Good night, guys,” Dessie smiles, and walks out.

 

The sex that night is quiet, unhurried but not slow. They’re both careful not to be too vocal, just in case Dessie is still awake down the hall. Cas has no problem with keeping silent, but Dean (yet again) ends up having to bury a yell into a pillow. Thank God their pillows are thick enough that it usually works.

All too soon, Dean has to get ready to leave. They lie side by side, facing the ceiling as breaths even out, heart rates settle down, and sweat dries.

Cas looks over at him. “You’ll call if you need me?” Dean nods, for a moment too lost in those blue eyes to speak. “Good. Be safe.”

“Just a rougarou, babe. No problem.” Dean grins. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Go, then,” Cas tells him, cradling the side of Dean’s face in his palm. Before he has time to blink, he’s back in his clothes from earlier, clean and ready. Cas too. 

“All right, I know, enough procrastinating…” Dean sits up and swings his feet off the bed, shoving them back into his boots. 

They both finally leave their bedroom, and on the way to the main room, Dean gently pushes Dessie’s door open a crack. A thin sliver of light falls into the room, illuminating a silent lump burritoed under her pale blue comforter. He can see her hair spilling out the top, but she’s facing away. “Sweet dreams, kiddo,” he says softly. 

“I’m gonna go through those books again,” Cas says as Dean grabs some weapons and refills his duffle. “I don’t see the point in keeping the books that have false information. It can be dangerous.”

“You do that,” Dean nods. He shrugs into his jacket and slings the bag’s strap over his shoulders. “All right. See you later.”

Cas hugs him tightly. “Love you.”

Dean turns his head and kisses Cas one more time. “You too,” he mouths against his lips.

 

He’s either slightly late, or Sam was a little early. Either way, Sam’s standing outside of his car, arms crossed, waiting patiently. When Dean swings the Impala’s door shut, Sam looks up, and a grin slowly spreads across his face. “Had time for a quickie?”

Fuck. His hair. Cas must’ve missed it. Or more likely, left it sex-mussed just to fuck with Dean. He smooths it down quickly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Shut it.”

Sam laughs at him as they walk on soundless feet up to the nearly collapsing house. 

The door is locked, of course. Dean digs around in the bag and comes out with a lockpick, wanting to be as quiet and unheard as they can possibly manage. Rougarous are so fast, by the time they kick the door in, it would be on them, so sneaking in is probably their best bet here.

The living room is a maze of shadows and darkened furniture, sheets covering them having long since accumulated enough dust and dirt to prevent any hope of bouncing back moonlight through the dirty windows. They can see a kitchen off to the left; Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam and inclines his head slightly.

Sam steps carefully into the kitchen while Dean makes his way upstairs. It’s a tiny house, smaller than some apartments really, and the only thing upstairs is a single bedroom – dust so thick he has to keep swallowing back a cough – and a bathroom filthy with neglect. There aren’t even any footprints up here the way there were in the living room’s dust.

He meets back up with Sam at the base of the stairs. “I checked the dining room too,” Sam whispers. “Nothing.”

“So he’s gotta be downstairs,” Dean says.

They walk as silently as they can manage on the old, wood-warped stairs leading down, but the fourth step from the bottom _creaks_ so loud they instinctively whip their heads around, waiting to be attacked. Sam readies the flamethrower just as Dean hears something rushing toward them from the underside of the stairs. 

Hands shove through the open slats at the back of Sam’s right knee and Dean’s left. They both go tumbling the last few steps, Dean’s sawed-off flying out of his hands, and Sam’s head _cracks_ against the cinderblock wall. He groans, his eyes flutter shut, and then he’s motionless.

“Sam!” Dean yells out, grabs at the flamethrower that fell out of his brother’s hands, and scrambles to his feet. It’s quiet again now; the rougarou fled to a hiding spot. “All right, you bastard, get the fuck out here,” Dean mutters, his voice low and angry. 

What the hell. The thing actually listens to him. Across the room he sees movement emerging from another doorway, and he aims the flamethrower.

It does nothing. Fucking son of a _bitch_. The rougarou is almost on him he can’t possibly have a broken flamethrower _now_ , why won’t this fucking thing wor—


	2. Dessie's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dessie overhears the phone call and decides to sneak out and tag along.

_[Dessie’s point of view]_

Something is going on. She just knows it somehow. 

Dessie had been working on her homework in her bedroom when Uncle Sammy called, and she’d managed to catch a few words. Rougarou, whatever that was. She had a feeling it had nothing to do with the pasta sauce, though, and everything to do with the “hunting trips” Dad and Papa mention from time to time.

Then she heard about an actual _flamethrower._

What the hell?

Her curiosity had been piqued, and she’d made a decision. She hadn’t wanted them to think she overheard anything, so she left her room and quickly grabbed a bowl of Lucky Charms after Dad went to find Papa (and probably make out, if the times she’d caught them in the past were any indication). Thinking all the while how she planned to sneak out.

Now she’s lying curled up on the backseat floor of the Impala under the blanket they keep stashed in there sometimes, hoping Dad or Papa don’t look too closely at the pile of pillows in her bed. It would be so annoying if she’s caught and grounded, especially since she’s had the brilliant idea to arrange dolls at the pillow so they can see actual blonde hair.

She hears the front door of the Bunker shut and burrows farther against the floor. Her dad’s footsteps gradually become more and more audible as he approaches. _Don’t look in the backseat, please don’t look, I’m not here…_

Yahtzee. Dad gets into the car without ever realizing he has a stowaway. He drops something heavy onto the passenger seat, a muffled sound of metal clinking against metal, and starts the car. The engine roars to life, loud enough to muffle Dessie’s small squeal of excitement.

That can’t happen again. She bites her lips between her teeth and breathes as evenly as possible.

One of Dad’s songs starts playing. Something about being back in the saddle again. She grins and has to fight hard to keep from laughing as he sings along, enthusiastically but not exactly talentedly. She can hear him drumming on the steering wheel in regular intervals.

It takes about a half hour – Dessie chances checking her light-up watch one time only – and then they’re pulling in somewhere. The door slams quieter than normal, and Dad’s steps fade. She can vaguely hear Uncle Sammy’s voice at a small distance.

She waits.

She counts steadily to 100 before she pushes the blanket off her head and sits up, blinking momentarily at the streetlamp shining down through the car window. Dad and Uncle Sam aren’t around, so she climbs out of the car and shoves her hair out of her face.

They’re at a ridiculously cliché old house. It looks honestly like a haunted house – it’s abandoned, decaying, and all around _creepy_.

Dessie shivers and walks forward. She senses somehow that she needs to be quiet, so she steps as carefully as she can, watching for twigs that will crack under her feet. She slides her hands into her pockets and approaches the splintery stairs leading to the door.

“Sam!” her father yells out, sounding scared. Then he yells something about “get the fuck out” that’s definitely _not_ to Sam, but to someone else. (Some _thing_ else?)

Dessie hurries up the steps, not caring now if she makes noise. There’s a commotion coming from below as she hurries through the door. Dad shouts, there’s a thump, and then horrifying nothingness. A moment later, Uncle Sammy screams. “ _Dean! No!_ ”

She sees stairs across the dark room leading down and runs to them, her necklace bouncing as she goes. She tears down the stairs so fast she has to hang on to the banister to keep herself from falling forward into the basement. Dessie stops halfway down as a roar of fire shrieks across the darkness.

Uncle Sammy, silly, funny, dad-of-the-year in his own family, the guy that lives on his laptop and never misses an opportunity to tease her or Dad or Papa, the person she calls up when she’s having a rough time with her fathers, is _terrifying_. He’s holding a – 

Oh, God, they weren’t kidding about the flamethrower! Fire streaks out and lights up a scary figure, burning him alive as Uncle Sammy holds it steady. His eyes are tough as hell, alarmingly bitter and hard and cold.

He sees Dessie on the stairs and swallows hard, suddenly freaked.

The figure burns and burns and is that her dad on the ground next to the wall?

Is that blood he’s _surrounded_ by? The fire is lighting the room too brightly and she hopes it’s just oil or water or something, anything but red but there is so much of it and it’s all over her dad’s chest too…

She doesn’t know when it stopped, but the fire is gone now and so is the figure. Dessie flings herself across the floor, spots in her vision from the flames. “Daddy!” she screams out, but Uncle Sam is there, restraining her. “Daddy! No! Let go of me!”

“Dessie, _wait_!” Sam tries to keep hold of her, but she breaks free of his grip and hits the ground next to her father.

“Daddy…” she whimpers, wanting to slam her hands over her eyes shut but unable to tear her gaze away. The basement is still dark, but a window on a nearby wall lets in enough light from the streetlamp outside to illustrate the horrifying scene.

Her father is lying face-up, green eyes open and unseeing. Blood has splashed across his hands and arms, his face and neck and even his forehead. The shirts he’s wearing have been torn around the chest, and she absolutely _cannot_ look at the mangled mess under his skin but yet…

A shotgun is lying a few feet from the stairs, useless and unneeded now.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until her vision swims, she blinks, and then she can see again and warmth is running down her face.

Uncle Sam is kneeling next to her now, arms wrapped around her shaking shoulders. “Dess, it’ll be okay. Cas!” he calls out. “Cas!”

Dessie whips her head around. “He didn’t bring me,” she gasps, crying, tears hot on her neck. “I snuck out.” She turns back to her father and buries her face in his shoulder, sobbing hard. “Daddy, please, please, don’t…”

Something moves in the room. There’s a quiet breeze. Dessie lifts her head, and impossibly, Papa is there with them. “It’s okay, Dessie,” he says quietly, and reaches to grip her shoulder. “He’s going to be all right.”

“No, he’s not,” Dessie cries, lowering her head again against Dad’s shoulder.

She won’t be able to describe it later, but she senses something. It’s not a sound, or a feeling, or something she can see, since right now her eyes are clenched tight. But it’s like an energy, or something, is somehow flowing into her father’s body. Warmth surges through his skin, warm against Dessie’s face.

She sits up.

Papa has his palm tight against Dad’s forehead. His eyes seem bluer than normal, almost _glowing_. She has to be hallucinating all of this, because light is emanating from the point where Papa’s hand meets Dad’s forehead, and Dessie’s mouth drops as the skin—her father’s chest, the sliced and shredded _skin_ and stuff inside—

It’s all healing.

Healing.

Even as she watches, the devastation shrinks, lessens. The hollow closes in on itself, skin scarring over and healing, scars fading as quickly as they form, sliding past the tattoo and leaving everything just as it’s supposed to be. The last few inches of skin glow with an unearthly light as every last trace of scarring disappears.

There is no sound but that of their breathing now. Papa’s even and steady. Uncle Sammy’s, tense and low. Hers, jagged as she tries to inhale around the cries that have knotted up her throat. 

And her father’s. Her dad’s. _Dean’s_. Barely discernable, and then unmistakably alive. _Alive_. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

Somehow the splotches of blood are gone. It’s so impossibly thorough that even her dad’s _clothes_ are clean, although the jagged tears remain in both shirts and the jacket.

Dessie stares and stares, watching Dad’s chest rise and fall. Then locks her eyes on Dad’s face as Papa pulls his hand away. She barely notices as Papa reaches for her shoulders and squeezes tightly. “It’s okay,” he says again.

And then Dad’s eyes focus, flitting along the ceiling for a couple of seconds. He blinks, coughs, and – how is this _happening_? – sits up.

He sees her sitting next to him.

“Oh, shit,” he says.


	3. Dean's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telling her the basics that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncreative section titles, but like I said, I really didn't expect part three to grow so much!

_[Dean’s point of view]_

Dean cannot for the life of him think of what to say. After a moment, he points his finger at his daughter. “You. You have some explaining to do.”

“Yeah, Dean, and so do _we_ ,” Sam cuts in. 

Dessie’s small face is still streaked with tears and terror. Dean softens despite himself. “Come here, baby girl,” he says, reaching to pull her in. She’s shaking uncontrollably. “I’m all right. Baby. I’m all right, I promise,” he whispers into her hair.

“You were _dead_ ,” Dessie cries, very nearly choking him in her relief. He might need resurrected _again_ if she doesn’t loosen her grip. “I _saw_ it, Daddy.”

“He’s not,” Cas says. “But we should probably continue this at home.” When Dessie finally lets go of him, Cas locks his arms around him almost too tightly. Just like their daughter, he’s trembling slightly too, as if angel power and all, the thought of losing Dean was too much for him either.

“You guys want me to meet you there?” Sam asks, once Cas and Dean have broken apart and he has his turn to hug his brother. The three of them look at each other only for a half-second before they nod.

“Yeah, this is definitely a ‘family business’ thing, Sammy, so we need you there,” Dean says. He glances around the room. “Speaking of.”

Sam nods. “He’s gone. I don’t know why the flamethrower didn’t work for you, but I woke up and…” He glances away. “Anyway. I got it to work. He’s taken care of.”

Dean remembers Sam getting knocked out. “Come here,” he says. “Lemme see your eyes.” He examines his brother’s pupils, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of a concussion. “All right, you’re good,” he pronounces finally. “Go ahead. We’ll be there right after you.”

“Okay.” Sam runs a hand over his niece’s hair. “Things are okay,” he tells her soothingly. “Trust me. We’re all right.” With that, he gets to his feet. “See you in a bit,” he says, and picks the flamethrower back up. Creaks a couple of stairs on his way up.

Dessie still seems so shaken that Dean and Cas wrap her up in a group hug, Dean running his hand over the top of her head and Cas lightly rubbing her back. They sit like that for a couple of moments and then pull back. 

“Ready to go?” Dean asks her. She nods wordlessly, and they all get to their feet. 

As Dean retrieves the shotgun and puts it back into the duffle, he’s still so worried about her that he doesn’t have a single bit of room left over to be angry that she snuck out and followed him. Any punishment he could think of – what the hell could that compare with _watching one of her fathers die?_

They get all the way out to the car before anybody says anything. Dean notices how the dark greenish-brown blanket in the backseat is shoved on the floor and messy, and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see you back there,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Dessie mumbles, sliding into the backseat and clicking her seatbelt on. She reaches forward for the ancient thing, drawing it up around her shoulders.

Dean’s having a seriously hard time with this. He shuts her door, and he and Cas get into the front seat. Cas locks his hand with Dean’s.

The car ride home is unbearably silent. But none of them can figure out what to say. 

 

Sam’s waiting in his car when they pull up. The roar of the Impala dies away quickly, and they all trudge inside the Bunker.

Dessie plays with her necklace absently while they take seats at the light table. 

Where the hell do they even begin? Dean shoots Cas a look, asking without words. Cas seems to understand, and says simply, “We will be completely honest with you. Ask whatever you need.”

“Dad was dead, wasn’t he?” Dessie asks immediately. “And you fixed him.”

Cas twists his fingertips together uncertainly. “He was.”

Sam’s gaze darts back and forth between them.

Dessie looks at Cas wonderingly. “How can you do that?” she says. “You… healed him. From the dead. How?”

“I’m an angel,” Cas says simply.

Dessie stares. “You—An—holy—” Her eyes widen comically. “I mean—Um—” Unable to finish a single sentence, she resorts to blinking a lot.

“It’s true,” Sam says. 

“So like, when I was little and you used to refer to Papa being an angel sometimes…” 

“Yes, we told you later we weren’t serious, that it was a joke, but…” Cas lifts his shoulders and then drops them. “It was true.”

There’s a pause. Dessie exhales, still digesting everything. Her breathing is slightly shallow and Dean’s worried she might go into shock. He reaches across for one of his daughter’s hands. “Point is. I’m alive. Trust me, everything’s all right.”

Cas takes Dessie’s other hand. “I will always do what I can to keep you and your father safe,” he promises. 

Dessie stares at the surface of the table. “So…” She tries again. “So, um, what was that thing?” she asks.

“A rougarou,” Sam answers. “It’s… Kind of like a werewolf, I guess. It’s only vulnerable to fire.”

“The flamethrower,” Dessie remembers, and shivers.

“Hey,” Sam says, softly.

She lifts her head and meets her uncle’s gaze.

“I know that was scary as hell, back there,” Sam tells her. His eyes are gentle, understanding. Dean can imagine the sight Sam must have been, his badass expression on, blasting flames into some strange monster’s chest, and knows Sam’s making an extra effort to appear as normal as Dessie thought he always has been. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Believe me, I am.”

Dessie makes an attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know.”

“We didn’t want to have to bring you in on this until you were older,” Dean says, and lightly squeezes her hand. 

She looks down at their hands, staring at how the light overhead shines on the gold of Dean’s wedding ring. “Older,” she muses. Glances back up. “Does Robbie know?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, Robbie knows,” he confirms. “He actually found out a few years back. We were going to wait until he was twelve. It didn’t turn out that way, though. But he didn’t—He didn’t have to—” Sam bites his lip. “He had an easier time of it. He ended up hacking into my computer and read everything.” Shakes his head. “He was nine at the time, and I wish he hadn’t, but… Anyway, he knows everything now.”

“We were going to wait until you were thirteen,” Cas tells Dessie.

Dessie keeps her eyes on Sam. “What about Maryann? When are you telling her?”

“Twelve, same plan as with Robbie.” Sam sighs. “I’m not counting the days or anything, believe me.” 

“What else can you do, Papa?” Dessie asks, letting go of Dean’s hand and shifting in her seat, turning her attention on Cas. “You don’t have, like, a halo or wings and stuff, do you?”

Cas nods. “No halo, but I do have wings,” he says. “They’re not visible to human eyes, though, on this plane.”

“Yeah, just the shadows or something, right?” Dean asks.

Dessie’s eyes are wide. “Shadows? Are they visi…? Could I…?” The three adults exchange a glance and a subtle grin at her enthusiasm. 

“Sure,” Cas finally says. There’s a faint sound of a thunderclap outside, and Cas flashes the shadowy wings behind him, the tips curving up and reaching for the ceiling. 

For the first time in hours, a grin lights up Dessie’s face. “Awesome,” she breaths, amazed.

The dichotomy of two scenes amuses Dean. How impressively badass and even _intimidating_ Cas had been that day in the barn so many years ago, how stoic and “do not question me I will smite your insignificant ass” he’d been as he stood ramrod-straight, silently daring Dean to _try_ to fuck with him.

And now he can’t even be bothered to push the chair back or stand up. And the badassery is only evident in the wings themselves – this time, Cas had been completely at ease, even smiling fondly at his daughter. 

Dean covers his laugh with a hand as the wings flare out of sight again.

“That was so cool, Papa,” Dessie says. “Can you really fly with them?”

“It’s more teleportation,” Dean explains. “That’s how Sam got him there right away.”

“And there’s more to all this that you need to know,” Sam adds. He gestures his hand toward her necklace. “That pendant isn’t just a family thing, for example.”

Dessie glances down automatically. “Yeah, it’s the tattoo you and Dad have, I kn—” Her eyes fly open wider. “Hey….” She turns to Cas again. “Does it mean anything that _you_ don’t have one?”

Dean nods. “They’re anti-possession symbols,” he tells her. “To keep us all safe. Cause demons aren’t picky about who—”

“ _Demons_?” She looks intimidated now.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dean says quietly, reaching for her hand again. “It sucks that you have to hear this, but they are out there too. But they can’t possess you, or me, or Sammy or Robbie or Aunt Amelia or Maryann with the necklaces and tattoos.” Amelia had gotten the sigil tattooed as well.

She frowns. “But wouldn’t it be safer for Robbie and me to get tattoos too when we’re older? These could fall off…”

“You’re not getting a tattoo.” Dean points a finger at her sharply. “Get back to us when you’re eighteen. I’m not saying _no_ , I’m saying you’re _ten_.”

“A smart ten, though,” Cas murmurs from across the table. “She has a point. Maybe in a few yea—”

“Not helping, Cas. I’ll draw it on with Sharpie every day if I have to first.”

“Guys, I hate to do this, but it’s almost ten-thirty,” Sam cuts in with a quick watch check. “I need to be getting home. I told Amelia I’d be back before ten or so, and Robbie’s probably in bed already.”

“That’s fine,” Dean says. “Thanks for being here for a little bit.”

He walks outside with Sam, hands in his pockets. A light drizzle has started up, and they squelch through the inchoate rain puddles toward Sam’s car.

“So you think she’ll be okay?” Dean asks, still concerned. “How was Robbie after you talked to him?”

“Robbie was… Well, for one, he didn’t walk in on my dead body,” Sam says bluntly. Dean cringes. “But he did take a few days to get used to everything. He’s fine now and everything, but yeah, it sucked for a little bit. First he was like, numb, and then he got angry, and after a couple weeks he seemed to be back to his normal self.”

“Oh, god, this is gonna _suck_ ,” Dean groans as Sam unlocks the car door. “I really hate that she snuck out. I’d die all over again if it meant she didn’t have to see that.”

Sam _hmm_ s. “Yeah, you might wanna get her into therapy or something, you know, in case. I just don’t know what you’d tell them.”

Dean shrugs, leaning against the left rear door. “Could say she saw me get seriously hurt. That’s not a lie. Or that she saw a dead body. That’s not, either.”

“Try explaining the circumstances behind that one, though,” Sam says. “Right. We’ll figure this out. It’ll be okay, all right, Dean?”

“I hope so.” Dean stands up off the car. “All right. Hey, tell the kids and Amelia I said hi, okay?” 

“I will,” Sam says, and stares at the ground for a second. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this. I know you hated it when I found out early, and this has got to be _so_ much worse. She’s probably still really shaken.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “It’s not going to be easy. But you know what, too? There’s a small part of me that’s kind of relieved she knows about everything. It’s been getting hard to keep stuff from her. She’s so frigging smart, I knew it was only a matter of time…” Shakes his head. “Amelia’s gonna be worried. You better go.”

“Okay. Take care, Dean.” 

“You too,” Dean says. He hugs Sam, and watches his brother get in the car, waving as he drives off.

He hopes like hell that Sam’s right about things turning out okay. But he’s not sure.


	4. Dean's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the evening, and a few weeks after.

Back downstairs, Cas and Dessie are in the middle of a discussion about hunting trips. “…a reason your dad doesn’t like to use the trunk when you go with him,” Cas is saying. “There’s a cache of weapons in the bottom part you were never supposed to know about.”

“Hey,” Dean says warningly, hanging his damp jacket back up. “Don’t tell her _too_ much. Jesus.”

“Weapons?” Dessie asks as he sits back with them. “Like guns, and stuff?”

“What did you think _hunting_ involved when you thought it was animal hunting?” Dean asks. “Yes. Guns. Uh, among other stuff, but it’s getting really late and you have school tomorrow.”

Cas glances over at him. “I would think if she’s ever entitled to a free day off school for no reason, tomorrow would be it.”

Dean exhales roughly. “Cas… She really needs normalcy here.”

His husband actually rolls his eyes. “Dean. Tonight she saw you die and get _brought back to life_. Can she have a fucking day to process this?”

Holy shit. 

Dean swallows. “Um. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I guess so.” Dessie lets out a little amazed breath and almost smiles again.

 

Dean wakes up later the next morning than he really wanted to. It’s almost ten. The bed is empty, and he heads out to see a subdued Dessie at one of the brown tables in the library, a glass of orange juice half empty in front of her. “Morning, kiddo,” he says, brushing his hand along the back of her head. “Love you.”

“You too,” she mumbles, staring at her hand around the glass. “Papa’s making eggs if you want some.”

In the kitchen, Cas is standing in front of the stove scrambling eggs. “She was up before I came out here,” he says as Dean walks in and goes straight for the cup of coffee Cas left waiting.

Dean sips his coffee. “Did you call her off school?”

“Yes. I said she had the stomach flu.”

“That’s a good one,” Dean says. “Infectious. They wouldn’t want her there.” He wanders back out to the table Dessie is sitting at. “Did you ever go to bed?” he asks his exhausted daughter.

She glances up with dark bags under her tired eyes. “Yeah,” she says throatily. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept…”

Dean shuts his eyes for a moment guiltily. “Kiddo,” he says, setting his coffee down and watching her carefully. “I’m really—”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” Dessie interrupts, turning pained blue eyes his way. Cas carries out a plate of scrambled eggs and a bottle of ketchup, setting both in front of her. “Thanks, Papa.” She looks at Dean again. “You don’t need to say sorry. I know there was nothing you could’ve done. You didn’t want me to see it, and I shouldn’t have snuck out.” Cas frowns at her in concern, a frown creasing his eyebrows together as he puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently.

Oh, for the love of…

Fuck.

Dean sighs as Dessie slowly starts to eat. “You’re a _kid_. _You_ don’t have anything to be sorry for, either.”

She swallows. “Right. Nothing for you guys to apologize for and nothing for me to be sorry for, so let’s go ahead and get on with our lives, right?” She drains the last of the orange juice and stands to go get more.

Cas takes a seat across from Dessie’s spot. “There are more in the kitchen if you want some,” he says. 

Dean shakes his head. “Can’t even think about eating right now,” he groans, and sips his coffee almost reluctantly. “God. It’s like she aged overnight.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You’re not going to do anything,” Dessie says, returning with a full glass of juice. “I just need some time, okay? Don’t do that overly worried about me thing and don’t keep asking if I’m okay.”

“All right,” Dean agrees, watching her lightly add ketchup in spurts here and there. A habit only God knows where she’d picked up, because Cas doesn’t need to eat and he’s never thought of adding ketchup to weird foods like eggs. Or unbelievably enough, _macaroni and cheese_. “But if you ever wanna talk…”

Dessie glances at him. “I know where you live,” she says, a single sprinkle of humor in her voice. “Don’t worry.” She takes a bite.

The three of them sit in silence, Dean and Cas pointedly trying not to keep watching her. Finally, Dessie breaks the quiet. “I am glad, though, that one of my dads is an angel,” she admits. “Things could have been a lot worse.”

“Yes, they could have,” Dean says. “Your Papa’s pretty amazing.”

A hint of a smile lifts the corner of Cas’s mouth.

“So are you like, okay-okay?” Dessie asks before stabbing another piece of scrambled egg and ketchup. “Like back to normal completely, no scars from it or … I don’t know, whatever?”

Dean nods. “I’m fine, kiddo,” he tells her, putting a hand on her arm. Fakes a smile. An idea begins to roll around in his head, but he’s really not sure about it yet.

They sit in silence while Dessie eats.

“Did you have anything going on today at school?” Dean asks, more to lift the oppressive silence than any real concern for what she’s missing. Tests, reports due, whatever.

She shakes her head, still chewing. Swallows. “Um, I think we had a test in science or something, but I can always make it up. I’m not worried.”

Cas crosses his arms and leans partially on them against the tabletop. “You’ll be fine,” he says while watching her finish the last of her orange juice.

When Dessie’s finished eating, she takes her own dishes to the kitchen. Dean listens for the sound of running water and turns to Cas. “I need to talk to you,” he says softly.

 

Dessie wanders off to her room afterward to watch a few episodes of her favorite show. Dean sits with the last of his coffee, cold by now, and waits to hear the title music playing. 

Cas says nothing, apparently sensing the difficulty Dean’s having in bringing this up.

He shifts position, massively torn. Finally just spits it out. “Do you think I should offer to stop hunting for a while? Like, maybe for good at some point?” Cas’s eyes widen. “I mean, I don’t really _want_ to stop, I’ll be honest, but if it…” He stops and tries again. “What I mean is, I don’t want her spending even one night afraid.”

“That’s pretty huge, Dean,” Cas murmurs.

“I know. And every fiber in me is fighting the idea. I mean, I’m a hunter, you know? It’s what I was born for,” Dean says. “I can handle myself. But this…” He shakes his head. “The way she looked last night…”

It’s true. He can handle the light minutiae with hunting, like the researching various lores or buying bullets over and over. The irritations like all the scrapes, cuts, broken bones, dislocated shoulders, whatever. Constantly ducking under the radar of the law. And the bigger ones - almost dying, or _actually_ dying, or when the monsters he and Sam are fighting end up using their family bond in sick “come get your brother even though you know it’s a trap” scenarios. Sam, hurt or in danger.

But push comes to shove, the one thing he _could not_ handle is what happened last night. Seeing Dessie so terrified. Feeling her small form shake so hard he’d honestly worried about her giving herself minor brain damage. The hysterics that took hours to fade from her eyes. And this morning’s deadened exhaustion from having nightmares all night long.

He’d barely slept himself.

“It _is_ up to you,” Cas says. “But I know you. I know you don’t even want to suggest it.”

“I c—”

“I know. You’re worried about her.” Cas stands and takes another seat on Dean’s side of the table, taking his hands. “I’m not saying run off tonight for another hunt. Give her a few weeks. But don’t make any rash decisions here.”

Dean just looks at him. 

“You should see your face when you come home from hunts,” Cas continues, pressing Dean’s fingers between his own. “You’re _so_ excited, and proud and happy. I don’t want you to take that away from yourself.”

“But the way sh—”

“No, Dean,” Cas insists. “Don’t do this. At least not yet. Wait at least a month if you _really_ need to make a promise that you might not be able to keep.”

Dean stares down at their intertwined fingers, Cas’s skin warm against his own. He knows Cas has a point here. Reluctantly, quietly, he nods. “I know. You’re right,” he says finally. And fuck, every cell in his entire being is weak with relief at the fact that he’s decided not to ask.

But goddammit, he feels like the worst father ever right now.

Cas clears his throat. “And _no_ , you’re _not_ a bad father for this,” he says, as if he knows what Dean’s thinking. “I know that look.”

“What _look_?” Dean scoffs, trying to keep a lightness in his tone.

“That ‘I suck’ look,” Cas snaps. “You’re not. And I’m not going to sit here all night extolling all of your virtues, so quit _sulking_.” His eyes are so intense, they practically flash angel-power blue.

Holy shit. Cas can be frightening when he’s angry. “Okay,” Dean says, swallowing. “Fine. But I wish… God. This is like the Santa thing all over. Except a million times worse.” Dessie had found out the previous year, when Cas had gotten a little careless about making sure that her presents were packed away. Dessie had come barging in their bedroom the one time to ask something, and she’d seen the CDs from her wish list.

“She’ll be okay,” Cas reassures him. He kisses Dean lightly. “We just have to give her time.”

 

Over the next few weeks, their daughter slowly comes back to them. It does take longer for her to bounce back than Robbie, and they give her the offer of seeing a therapist specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder.

She refuses. “How honest could I _be_?” she asks right away. Even the idea Dean offers her doesn’t take – she worries a counselor would know when she’s lying.

Dean notices her leaving the pendant on a lot more often, not even taking it off to sleep like she had done before. When he checks on her some nights, she’s got her hand wrapped around it, other arm beneath her pillow, unconsciously clinging to something of safety.

One Tuesday afternoon when she comes home from school, Sam is there with her parents, a pile of blank pages on one of the brown tables with pens and pencils. “What’s all this?” Dessie asks, hanging up her jacket and looping her backpack around the back of one chair.

“Hey—first, do you have homework?” Dean inquires.

She sighs. “A report for English class. But it’s not due tomorrow.”

Cas leans back in his chair. “When _is _it due?”__

__“Thursday,” she admits. “It has to be three pages.”_ _

__“We have something for you to learn here,” Dean says. “Sam’s been talking me into ideas, and this seems small enough for you to start with. Go ahead, get that out of the way, and then we’ll get started.”_ _

__She seems eager to start, despite her initial anxiety about everything. “Really? Okay.” She pulls her computer out of the carrying case._ _

__Cas watches her open it up and sign in. “And we’ll be checking it over as usual, so don’t rush.”_ _

__“ _Fiiiiiiiine_ ,” Dessie draws out. She pulls a textbook out of her backpack and rests her phone on top of the pages to keep them open. After five minutes, she plugs her earphones into the computer._ _

__Sam, Dean, and Cas wait patiently for her. Sam looks something up on his laptop, Cas still has a stack of books he’s parsing through, and Dean doodles a stack of bricks on one of the blank pages._ _

__“So how’s Maryann doing?” Dean asks after he can’t take the silence anymore, still drawing._ _

__“She’s good. We gave her five dollars for the tooth fairy last night,” Sam says. “She was so excited to go to school today and tell everyone about it.”_ _

__“Did you have a picture of her with…” Cas makes a gesture towards his mouth._ _

__Sam nods. “Yeah, let me dig it up,” he says, and quickly clicks through and through the computer. “Here we go.” He turns the laptop so that both Cas and Dean can see his wavy-haired, gaptoothed daughter, grinning proudly and poking the tip of her tongue through the empty spot._ _

__“That’s one of the ones you save for her graduation party or something,” Dean smirks. He glances over, checking on Dessie. She’s frowning down at the page in a perfect Cas imitation. A smile tugs at his lips, entirely involuntarily._ _

__After about an hour, Dessie scoots back her chair. “I’m done for now,” she announces, pulling her earbuds out. “If one of you wants to look at it.”_ _

__“I’ll check it over,” Dean says, getting to his feet. He takes a seat next to her, reading through quickly. She has a couple of run-on sentences, and she changes tense a few times, but her spelling is excellent like it usually is, and she has a solid theme running through the pages. “All right,” he says when he can’t find anything else to fix. “Looking good, kiddo.”_ _

__“Okay, so, now what’s going on with the pages and stuff?” Dessie immediately asks. Evidently her curiosity had been building as she wrote. “Art project?” They sit down at the table with Cas and Sam._ _

__“There’s a couple things you should probably learn how to draw,” Sam begins. “Uh, sigils.”_ _

__“There are many different ones, with different purposes,” says Cas. “But we decided on just a few of the more important ones for you to learn, for now.”_ _

__Dessie pulls a couple of pages over and grabs a pen. “Okay. Let’s do it.”_ _

__“This right here…” Dean starts drawing. “This is a devil’s trap. Basically just a circled star, but you have to do all these little symbols too…”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest story in ADIEY. Thank you for sticking with it!


End file.
